Oliver Twist
reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but
even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the
nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the
rough boards which supplied the place of door and window,
were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture
wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel
was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there
lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open
door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his
way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver
keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mount-
ed to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a
door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The
undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained,
to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed.
He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouch-
ing, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too,
had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting
beside him. There were some ragged children in another
corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay
upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.
Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and
crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was
covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard
were grizzly; his eyes were blookshot. The old woman’s face